Cowardly Muse

Cowardice! There was a grand piano guaranteeing, with a stadium reverb and precision tuning, to sound beautiful and precise even with the most simple, gestural, melodies. The throne, the helm, the saddle… all were empty, untamed, and waiting for a new temporary king. Play anything; simple can sometimes manifest as genius. Never simple minded. No genius with such a world view. Oh, black and white polaroid piano of grandeur! How you taunt me with your wondrous tonality. My ears turned upward toward your heavens, bald and naked as of yesterday, premature in this cold front, breast plate pulsing, collateral fear, exceptional side stepping, moribund absent mindedness, the avoidance of human connection, or neighborly barbequed, shared warmth and food yet with no pretense of godly forgiveness, it is not a game night in paradise, we are lonely, cosmically lonely passing stars, avert the eyes and mind, this is not a tangent to follow, this human specimen is as foreign to you as a dead language, buried beneath mounds of mold and rust, blood letting at the archaic hospital, if we still believed evolution to be a false prophecy enticing us into the service of sin, how virtuous we must be to ignore science and mischief, both.

I failed to uphold my chalkboard promise. There is my name and a time. A sunken couch near stacks of albums, poorly organized in vertical columns instead of horizontal rows, without careful mindset revealed and cynical, clairvoyant appeals to the future sense of past entitlement. Does your past truly belong to you? How can you own something that does not exist? Just as music always fades into a whisper, no matter how chaotic and cacophonous the tune. So does my confidence.

My muse lead me away from responsibility yet again. She is a peripheral angel of many colors and shapes just around the next bending light beam. Around the next bend and then again, until a waveform is created, these undulations of emotional tempest, turmoil and boiling clouds, red blood cells out of our gushing eyes if we made eye contact, though she a specter, infinitely dead, I would implode to make love to her vaporous essence, like a spiraling star death, the nebulous implosion of atmospheres on distant worlds, wiping out alien life for millions of years in a single breath.

Do I dare question her decision to lead me astray? Well, of course.

Bright and biting satire, riding through landscapes of graves. Such an elusive predator. Large gnashing jaw, biting through steel traps and dissembling all attempt capture. What is the point of all this nonsense?

Guilty of tangential thinking, I must conceal the purpose, the truth of my sanity disintegration, my loveless heart, harlequin emotions and insidious implications with thick fabric obfuscation. Sometimes, in moments of writing clarity, when my guard drops, the fabric sways gossamer in the moonlit day and a naked fragment of my true intent is drawn bare in the iridescent glow of my babbling brook serpent’s tongue.

I could say, “I am afraid of the internal combustion of my family as health and economic pressures heighten with age.”

But I’d rather say, “Wine mutes self-awareness, or sensational clarity of mind, and the champagne ends up opening itself in nocturnal, mid afternoon silences between gaps in teeth and obsessions turning petty arguments into quiet resentments, the wine is a sponge to soak up outward expression of this woe.”

Obscure, dissociative phrases, instead of direct, concise language and appeals.

I need to rebuild this widening gap with duel suspension bridges, east and west on the 16.

“It is what it is,” she repeats, as if to herself. For solace.

I tell her that her that I wished she wouldn’t use that phrase, although it seems to work well for her denial capacities. It is a constant self lie that enables her to accept the present horror of each situation. Frail minds of weakening parents. Absent husband. Greatly troubled daughter. Economically non-viable son (me). Friends who require her shoulder in order to cry. Disrepair of personality. Dragging feet and eyes closed. Sadness. Volatile sadness, spinning toward the ground.

I could pour myself out with these fears. I could lack the confidence to have human contact. This is me lacking the grasp to accept my reality, just like her. We must break away from the horrible tendencies that have crippled our intent.

Shiny objects. Passive aggression. Brain damage. Heart murmurs. Drunk girlfriend in night long fits of coughing. Brash and uncouth in her naked attempts at condolence. Stir these elements together this tension in the air, palpable tension, even to scoop out blobs of it from the air. Enmity. Horror. The weight of memories of inheritance. The clarity of dissolution.

I can’t muddle this. Or add any stressors to the mix. So I cry in silent, dark apartments.


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